The Fool's Crossing
I '''A' certain inkling tickled along the Grim Preceptor's spine and whispered an otherworldly melody most unpleasantly within her ears. Although such a sensation was one familiar to she who bore the title and responsibility of Crossroads Demon, yet too did it feel… Different. Many a times had Emberfell been called upon through Rite and Ritual alike, though thus far her reputation only extended as far as her own realm. Now; however, this calling upon her Immortal Soul sang its haunting tune as though it were a million, million miles away. Who might reach for a being such as She, from a world so very far away? Once more; stronger now, did this calling upon her Immortal Soul ring out within the Preceptor’s ears. It twisted within her eardrums and coiled around the base of her spine in pallid, tense claws which so desperately sought to have her drawn elsewhere. In spite of this Summoning bearing its roots at a distance even she could not wholly comprehend, it weaved its threads about and within her with greater strength than Emberfell had ever experienced prior. Slowly did she pivot upon her heel, as if she might somehow come face to face with the being who desired her presence. Needle sized tears within the very fabric of reality as the Preceptor perceived it steadily broke out along the space before her, each flickering fissure growing in width and length until the whole of her surroundings shattered around her, leaving Emberfell stood within a blackened space of sheer and utter nothingness. Although she could not breathe, nor see, nor feel, she yet knew she was still living… Moving, yet to what destination? She knew not - only that she would surely arrive within a mere heartbeat. Just as the world around her had been cracked and devoured by this creeping, shattering darkness, thin trails of moonlight broke through the surrounding darkness which enveloped the Preceptor’s entire being. Inhaling slowly through her nose, Emberfell left her eyelids to flutter closed as she awaited for reality to rebuild itself around her. Patient, yet oh so curious to what realm she might open her eyes to. With a sound not unlike brittle glass falling unto hard stone, the Grim Preceptor raised her eyelids and looked out her moonlight bathed surroundings. At first, she saw little difference between this particular location, and the regions of the Eastern Kingdoms which she had grown quite used to over the past few centuries. There was a certain odor to the air, once which Emberfell could not quite put her finger upon - all she knew was that the scent was not one entirely pleasant, and gave her a vague recollection of certain goblin Slums. The moonlight too above felt almost weakened, and as she turned her head upwards to look upon the starry sky, she found herself wondering how any horizon could be so lacking in radiance… “Daemon, esto subjecto voluntati maea.” A single tapered ear wilted away from the side of Emberfell’s head upon hearing such an unfamiliar language. Although there was a certain softness to the tone which spoke it, so too could the Preceptor recognize the tense apprehension. Sweeping her gaze along the intersecting pathways, the Grim Preceptor laid eyes upon a solemn figure knelt near to the very edge this said Crossroads - head dipped down low and hands clasped together in what she assumed to be some sort of prayer. Soundlessly did Emberfell tread forward, her footfalls even and - perhaps - with a touch of hesitation of her own. This land was one she had never bore witness before, and the unfamiliarity of the situation did little to ease the Preceptor’s twisted sense of curiosity. Even as she came to a stop but a mere stone’s throw away from this knelt and shivering figure, they did not yet seem to be aware of Emberfell’s presence. So enraptured by the foreign phrase which they uttered over and over again, they knew not the creature they had summoned was already amongst them. A long and miasma filled exhale escaped the Preceptor’s parted lips, a gesture which finally drew this Poor Unfortunate Soul out of their reverie. Swiftly they clamored to their feet, wide eyes staring at Emberfell with an expression she could only describe as disbelief and awestruck. They stuttered out a few syllables, though otherwise could not bring themselves to form any sort of cohesive statement. “Are you going to stand there in a gibbering mess, or will you tell me why you thought to summon me?” Emberfell inquired with a raise of her brows and a most unpleasant frown. Either her words startled the would-be demonic summoner, or they had not expected her to have such a surprisingly lukewarm and almost lilting tone of voice. Once more they opened and closed their mouth without a single word coming out. Upon receiving a harsh glare from the Preceptor, they eventually managed to put themselves together and stutter out something a bit more cohesive, “I-I was only seeing if it would work… I d-idn’t...think it would...” With her brows yet still raised though now drawn together in a stern furrow, Emberfell stepped forward to slowly circle this apparent disbelieving summoner… In spite of their hesitation to believe in the idea of demonic summoning and; seemingly, any other form of magic, they had gone ahead with it regardless, and even succeeded. It still remained a mystery how they had managed to contact Her of all foul spirits - yet here she was. “Well, then… You have what you wanted, hm? You know that such spells are; in fact, possible, and you have before you a Demon of trades and deals. Now I need only ask… What is it you desire, and what price are you willing to pay?” II "M'''ethodical" was one word to describe the systems and operations in place for The Constellate. Pragmatic, too. Careful, even. Methodical and pragmatic and careful - but most importantly - fair. Indeed, the way of going about the most important task, the manner of approaching The Great Work had to be done just right. ‘Right’ had many factors. There were many worlds in which The Great Work had to be done in and they were all the worlds that were known to The Constellate. Maedalaane knew it to at least be a million but the exact number eluded their mind. The records were in the archive, of course, but The Archon could scant remember their own age most the time. Even someone like them was terrible with numbers. Arithmetic; the bane of any artistic soul. Every member of The Expansion - those tasked with recruitment - was given their world to work in for a day and the choice was not up to them. The choice was made by a very simple random number generator. The task was simple; claim at least one person in that world. Many went above and beyond the duty, perhaps acquiring dozens of people. But only one was needed. Given the nature of multiplicative returns, one day yielded one. The next yielded two. The next yielded four. And so on. There was absolutely no need to overwork anyone. Maedalaane quite liked assignments on lively worlds. Those planets with fantastical technology that could perhaps be adapted into The Constellation. Or perhaps magickal places with foreign techniques that could be learned. And, if nothing else at all, those with synthetic bodies or mythical races (such as their self) tended to be...aesthetically pleasing. Carnally pleasing. Naturally, one could not always get what they wanted, and the Jahfaey’s assignment today was an Earth. ''Of cooouurrrsseeeee...fuck.'' Earths. Almost without exception, any version of Earth in any universe was god damned mundane, vapid, and humdrum. Detest it The Archon did but contest it they would not. It was not up to them. Not effectively. The Progenitor may have held ultimate power but it would not be abused - not even to shirk responsibility. Amusing; Humans of Earths usually had a saying; “With great power comes great responsibility,” a warning and most commonly a guarantee that those with power were going to mishandle it in some way. Humans themselves did have an inclination toward abuse. Maybe a lot of races had an inclination toward abuse. Actually...the Jahfaey themselves warred themselves into oblivion in eventuality with the power they held. But Maedalaane didn’t much prefer to identify with that dead race now. It wasn’t at all fitting. The Archon lifted up from their throne. The throne meant nothing the vast majority of the time, but ceremony was required on occasion. The rest of the time it was theatrics. Aestheticism. If anyone so wished, they too could have a throne in their house. Some did, too. Kings deserved thrones, but this was a plane of gods. “About time you stopped procrastinating,” An avatar chided, looking over their shoulder away from a bookshelf they had their attention on. '''“Tcha. You would too. Lucky shit.” Even their avatars had their assignment in a day. That one lucked into an assignment on Gielinor of all places, though it wasn't too lucky. It was an important world and it had a heavier weighting in the 'RNG' of the selection process. “...Ten acquisitions though, I saw. All elves, too. Lovely people, those. Good job.” “I do my best.” The avatar shrugged and refocused on the thick dusty tome they were trawling through. Humble on the outside but ever so proud on the inside, perhaps bordering on narcissism. Was it not a right, though? Were gods not entitled to god complexes? The Archon wondered this and similiar lines of thought often enough when observing their avatars. Introspection had never and perhaps wouldn't ever be a strong suite of theirs, but the ability to look in at their self from the outside at least helped with that. Still yet, they had no answer on the topic of ego. Maedalaane glanced down and considered their attire. It was the usual; a jet-black long-coat reinforced with plate metal bracers, a plethora of silver jewelry, and the always idiosyncratic choker that could be likened to a metal neck brace. That adornment was avant-garde in any culture but it made them recognized. It was good to be recognized. They supposed this would do. No efforts were ever made to blend in on other worlds nor was there effort to be deliberately intimidating. The only effort went to authenticity. “Take care, lovely.” The Archon offered in parting to their avatar as they readied a teleport to be on their way. “Try not to die of boredom, you.” The avatar chortled softly without looking back. Maedalaane didn't quite have the best of manners but outward demeanor was nigh meaningless in a family that listened to not just words and saw not just body language but also sensed the other's inner emotion. “Hmph. Prepare a funeral pyre just in case.” And off The Archon went, a snap of the fingers disassembled every single particle of their being and zipped it across the aether in but a second. But even teleportation necessitated a march to The Ingress - or a flight on conjured wings in Maedalaane’s case. One of many safety redundancies in The Constellation; a three mile teleblock radius surrounding the facility that housed The Ingress. If hypothetical intruders were somehow not apprehended on arrival, they’d have quite a ways to hike before they’d truly be free to traverse on their own accord. Should they ever find it time to leave, then, they’d have to deal with that same distance. The Archon touched down on the loose sands before the well guarded exterior of the facility. This building, tantamount to a huge titanium cube with a gate on one side, was in the middle of an apparent nowhere. The barren desert akin to a beige void stretched into the horizon in every direction and it was nothing even the chimera would want to slog through. Their claws found no traction in the incredibly fine sand that rose to their ankles. “Ahahaha...Earth! About time you got the shit stick!” An ever vigilant sentry cackled from behind the visor of a PSYCHOPOMP suite when Maedalaane touched down. Not even The Archon erected mental barriers - such was against The Code when in the homeland - and so the sentry knew their mission the moment he laid eyes upon them. “Hey, Auriculus, care to spar when I come back?” The chimera eyed him over with a flaring volatile visage, pupil and iris and sclera boundaries now unseen below a grossly incandescent aural flare. “...Have a good trip, Archon!” That shut him up. The look-that-could-kill was not a real threat at all. Corporeal failure was, at best, a nuisance. Humiliation was a very tangible prospect though. The denizens of the plane were nothing if not prideful and they had every right to be just so. Auriculus spun around and heaved upon the gates and even for him, a Praetor, this would've been impossible with muscle alone. “Keep up the good work now.” An amused chortle slipped from Maedalaane's black lips as they languidly sauntered by Auriculus with an ounce of spunk in their gait. His work wasn’t good, objectively, because it wasn’t work at all. The Constellation had never suffered an invader yet in its history. What could a sentry do besides simply piddle about on datapads for the length of their shifts? Even so, safety was built on redundancy. The Archon navigated a labyrinthe maze that led to The Ingress. Yet another security redundancy. They’d memorized the path long ago and would have been able to find their way even with closed eyes; never minding the fact that the nerves of their unshod feet translated vibrations into what was essentially sonar. Intruders without such an ability would have a hellish time figuring out the way as they fought patrolling sentries. Another greeting to two of the said sentries at the end of the maze then, and finally now, they’d arrived to The Ingress proper. For as grandiose though brutalist as the facility that housed this gateway was, the gateway to Everything was rather unassuming. It looked the part of any sort of generic portal one would find on a high magick world. No more than one person could enter at a time, even. It would be a most effective choke-point on any hypothetical invading armies. It was, one might assume, redundancy. But they'd think wrong this time. “Archon Maedalaane, your Expansion assignment is Earth of the Milky Way Galaxy in the Odiosis Universe. Coordinates locked in. You may pass when you are ready.” The operator in the overlooking control room informed. It was hardly specific, though. It was nigh impossible to be specific in regards to locations relative to the Omniverse’s complete picture. There would no doubt be a billion temporal transgressing offshoots of that universe somewhere or another. Maedalaane took a deep breath and crossed the verdant threshold. The Constellate had managed to reverse-engineer The Ingress’ coordinate attunement to simple enough of operation...but this was all they’d managed so far. The gestalt-inteligence’s adversaries often decried them as charlatans; usurpers of powers, magicks, and technologies that they did not truly comprehend. Worse yet, powerful enough to not have to much worry about what would otherwise be terrible ramifications sprung from improper usage. The opposition wasn't wrong. The godly army was of course not just in the interest of assimilating individuals, but nigh everything they could get their claws on. Those who stood against the imperialist gestalt-intelligence in active defiance often sooner took their own lives than be assimilated into the fold. Though wishing that they could, these martyrs couldn't take their resources to the hereafter. That all would be commandeered in addition to whatever else could be seized, a comprehension of how to best operate it or not. The Ingress in particular was a recovered artifact from a derelict world long abandoned by its denizens. Operation was relatively simple but usage was relatively terrible. Slipspace was the quickest means of travel known in the multiverse but even The Constellate reeled every time they went through. None of them constituted as 'normal matter' anymore but personal travel through eleven nondimensions was absolutely disorienting for no doubt anyone. If Maedalaane had a stomach they'd heave and if that stomach had food then it'd be a horribly messy affair. Where on the planet they’d even arrive to was unpredictable. The Ingress attuned itself to the most magickally charged location on a given planet. As bereft as Earths were of magick, Maedalaane could only hope they weren't delivered to the middle of a sea next to a borderline-sentient dolphin discovering sigil magick. Again. Maedalaane (talk) 10:46, September 13, 2018 (UTC) III T'he creeping feeling that something was coming was felt by the Grim Preceptor and the fledgling occultist who summoned her. What it was, how it’d come and why it was coming wasn’t and couldn’t be known. But it was coming. They were sure of it. Just as this elfish creature before her opened her mouth to speak, she clamped her jaws shut and turned her head elsewhere - a deep frown set upon her lips and her brows drawn together in a furrow. Before the summoner could ask what she was so seemingly distracted by, the Preceptor looked back to her and exhaled a harsh, miasma filled sigh. “Come now dear, you must have summoned me for something. Do not be shy…” The Preceptor took a step forward and laid a delicate hand upon the fledgling’s shoulder. “Tell me, darling… What is it you desired so greatly, that you thought to summon a Daemon such as myself?” ''Why...did I do this? Surely there were other options, yet even as she recounted them silently to herself, she knew they eventually would have all come to dead, unfortunate ends. Yet; as she stood here staring Hell in the face, Alexandria could not utter a single word, much less even open her mouth. This figure seemed so unlike the hellish creatures and demonic entities she had been expecting to meet and hoping not to, when she buried that jewelry box beneath the crossroads under her feet. She had envisioned towering brutes bathed in fire and spitting acid, and this womanly being before her was simply not anything like that. In truth, the woman stood so near into Alexandria’s personal space seemed almost ethereal, for lack of a better term - with her opaque colored hair tied back behind her head and her gaze lit aflame with some sort of purple, seething energy. Although it had been shocking to see from afar, it truly seemed as though this Daemon possessed no pupil or iris. Her elfin, tapered ears occasionally flicked back or pressed to the side of this strange demon’s head, and it seemed as though the motions were done independently of her thought. Do not reach out for them...do not. That will get you incinerated for sure. Both at a distance and now up close, Alexandria could find little imperfections to this woman’s features or skil - save for only the heavily bruised rings hanging around her eyes and the almost gauntness of her cheekbones. She wondered if demons perhaps needed sleep, and if they did, if this one had been lacking it… Her manner of dress as well seemed perhaps a touch anachronistic: garbed from collar to ankle in a heavy, white prim pressed robe adorned in silver sequins and golden clasps. A thin belt held the attire to shape at her waistline, where Alexandria locked eyes with… A skull. Her breath caught in her throat as the skeletal remains seemed to be returning her stare - empty and void filled sockets staring into her own darkened eyes. Surely it was merely a trick of the light, but as Alexandria leaned her posture ever so slightly away from the Daemon leaning just a bit too close to her, the skull shifted against her belt to retain eye contact. Whatever sort of being Alexandria had managed to summon from the depths, surely it could not be a true Crossroads Demon from mythos? But of course…she had summoned this being, and now they were asking for what purpose - and what payment might be given, in order to complete such a bargain. Would this demonic entity even comprehend the situation and deal which Alexandria desired for? How could anyone possibly understand what it meant to be an alien in their own body… The Grim Preceptor understood such a feeling far too clearly, though such things would likely never be known to either party. “Are you going to stand there and gawk all day, darling, or will you tell me what you want?” The Preceptor’s lilted tone of voice snapped Alexandria out of her revere. “You need only say the word, and it shall be done.” Would it be painful? Would she be required to pay in her blood - or even her soul? In truth, Alexandria had not thought ahead this far… She never expected this to work, much less for something so… human to answer her call. A lump formed within her throat, and when she finally managed to swallow it down, Alexandria looked the Grim Preceptor in the eye and finally - at last, spoke of her Desire. “I want to be a woman.” A single brow was lofted, and for the first time, Emberfell lowered her gaze from this would-be occultist’s face to instead peer down to her figure. Ah... She could see it, now. With effeminate features accentuated and the masculine roots buried and hidden away, any onlooker would not think to look twice. Now that the Preceptor had; however, she took note of a slightly too-chiseled jawline and the broadness of this human’s shoulders which were a degree too wide to belong to a natural, pure blooded woman. What a strange thing to ask for: to be the opposite sex, but could Emberfell really pass judgement? Such scrutinization was for Gods and Mortals - not for Daemons such as she. The hand which the Preceptor laid upon this human’s strong shoulder was at last retracted and, with a fang filled grin, she did offer a formal, bent bow. “My dear, is this truly what you desire?” She inquired for the final time. “I might give you what you wish for; however, such a transformation of flesh and blood will not be pleasant. You understand this, yes?” A stiff nod was given in answer. Clasping her hands together as she rose back to her full height, Emberfell’s grin widened further. “Very well then, darling Mortal… I shall grant you this desire; however…” A chuckle resounded from within her chest. “The pain is not part of your payment. You who thought to call upon the Grim Preceptor… You must too pay in something which shall equal your transformation in value.” Alexandria swallowed the lump forming in her throat again, and she hesitantly spoke up, “Y-you want my Soul, right?” She managed to ask with minimal stuttering. “I know not what your perception of the Crossroads Demons truly are darling; however, I gamble in more than just Souls - Immortal and Mortal alike. So too might I require services or perhaps items of monetary value. Even I know the worth of currency in a world so consumed by it.” There was more to be traded than her Soul? Instead of speaking, Alexandria merely nodded her head slowly in hopes this Grim Preceptor might clarify further. Thankfully, she did just that. “I must be rather honest with you, Mortal… This realm of yours is one wholly unfamiliar to me - this place is not where I was born, and neither is it where I reside. What you have done to draw me here is truly… Incredible, for one who seemingly held little belief of such things to begin with.” Emberfell pursed her lips into a frown. “Your Summoning spell reached across the cosmos to find me, Mortal, and I believe that to be evidence of greater talent and ability.” Emberfell once more placed her hand upon Alexandria’s shoulder, her expression no longer so sinister as it was… pleased. “I will make you into a Woman my dear… For the price of your apprenticeship. Serve under me, and I shall transform you into something greater than you can ever imagine.” Had the Grim Preceptor and the novice occultist forgotten about the weight which landed itself upon their shoulders and the heavy presence which loomed on, or had they merely chosen not to pay it any mind? Surely; it would make itself known to them fully - for better or for worse. IV 'T'h Archon preferred more eloquent words, but only one phrase was true here. Causal reconciliation was a bitch. '''“DUCK!!!” An air-slicing syllable was bellowed out by a sudden third voice in the woods behind Emberfell. Fortunate she was to have otherworldly reflexes, otherwise this jumpscare could have lifted her enough to be utterly bodied by the careening Archon. But she was swift enough to have even shoved Alexandria out of the way if the incoming voice was at her six’o’clock and was set to claim the girl as collateral. Not a half second after the Preceptor squatted down did Maedalaane sail through the air upside down and smashed into the nearest tree. Rudely awakened birds scattered to the dark skies as the newcomer thunked down on a split-second headstand until the rest of their body came down with a loud thud. “...Fuck.” Alexandria and Emberfell exchanged an incredulous look, the prior certainly more exasperated than the latter but even the daemon needed a second to process what just happened. She knew better than to think the could-be woman had accidentally summoned a hijink prone cartoon character, but Alexandria was less sure. “...Well now. It seems as though you have acquiesced more than what was bargained for, my dear.” Emberfell withdrew her hand from Alexandria’s shoulder and turned herself to fully face the sprawled out stranger that was basked in a fading azure aura energized to the point that their platinum mane of hair wavered in the air. The approximate thirty yard distance bathed in this subdued night’s darkness rendered the details of this oddity unseen to human eyes, but the set of elfish eyes narrowed when they saw what they did. “Yeah, u-uhm...yup.” Was all Alexandria found to say. Life had went from zero to one hundred in not even fifteen minutes. What have I gotten myself into? She looked to Emberfell, away from the figure she couldn’t much see. The concern in the daemon’s face was contagious. Her heart skipped a beat and looked back again with squinting eyes and the temerity to take one step forward. “A botched entrance belies the nature of our guest.” Emberfell could see this was no waywarded poor sod that was mistakenly tossed here by the aether. Claws like her own protruded over their toes, they were much too tall to be anything meek, and instead of groaning in pain they were already clamoring to a stand without a fuss. “I have already laid claim to this one,” A possessive hand laid atop Alexandria’s head and she went rigid even if she knew the Preceptor wasn’t likely to cause immediate harm. “What is your business here?” “Oh, you know. Lumberjacking. I forgot my hatchet though,” The azure aura of the causal reconciliation had dissipated fully now, dropping Maedalaane’s hair down to a length that reached the top of their rear. Its locks were white enough that the other two could swear it glowed in the slightest. “...Yeah, next time I won’t substitute the hatchet with my face.” They took in the sight of the tree trunk that now had a vague outline of their head. “I’m sharp but not that sharp.” The smallest of chortles sounded off in Alexandria’s throat. The last thing she expected was self-deprecation from mythical entities of yore, but Emberfell wasn’t amused in the slightest. “I have no patience for jesters, stranger. I am here on business.” The daemon firmed her diction, tightened her lips, and seized two steps forward. “Oh? This is the business club? Hope you accepted my application because I too am a Very Important Person, swear!” Maedalaane had been here and there - done this and that - and nothing bored them more than people who took life too seriously. These people ranged from the tiniest of gnomes to the most lovely of...whatever this blue woman was. This woman looked to indeed be the loveliest of her race of Whatever peoplethings. The Archon swiveled on a heel swiftly enough to splay their hair out like a fan, this disciplined body movement purposely incongruent to their words. “...Ridiculous.” Emberfell’s lips twisted to one side as she was now properly able to examine the trickster from the front. She’d been here and there as well and absolutely knew many people, everywhere and everywhen, could be judged by their cover just like a book. This chimera’s fiery eyes told of a loose cannon and it was an almost-literal wonder how the tree they crashed into didn’t get set ablaze. Their androgynous frame and voice spoke of an alien from Somewhere Else as some resemblance of gender was nigh universal. Their brazen stride carried a proactive heart that marched to the beat of their feet that demoted the world to a mere drum. They weren’t a book at all. They were a forbidden grimoire that took readers rather than let readers take its words. Alexandria shuffled backwards as Emberfell’s disdain grew and the stranger advanced. More than she bargained for, indeed. “U-uh...ma’am?” So quick this all had transpired, the Preceptor hadn’t even given her name yet. “Oh, settle down. I’m just trying to get within proper talking distance,” Maedalaane chided with a persistent tone that reconciled tease with affection. “It’ll be a wee bit easier to discuss things that way, don’t you think?” Whether the other two thought so or not, it was going to happen. Emberfell crossed her arms over her chest planted her soles firm into the dirt road and that boldness was comforting enough to keep Alexandria not too far behind, her backpedaling ceased. Of course she didn’t exactly trust the Crossroad Daemon yet but her intuition hinted that she was truthful in her desire. The other, though? Those blazing eyes looked like they wanted to incinerate the world. “Let’s see here...who’s first to spill the beans?” Maedalaane stilled at a proper talking distance and lifted a hand that was quite like Emberfell’s own, different only in color. Ringed and clawed, though the claw was even polished. “Eeny meeny miney mo,” The pointing finger darted to and fro between the two with each syllable that was eliciting the most quirked of brows from Alexandria. Monsters weren't supposed to act like this, surely? But Emberfell knew not of such childish games. To her, this was surely a magickal incantation of some variety... Maedalaane (talk) 10:46, September 13, 2018 (UTC) V I'f; indeed if this was some sort of spell which the Preceptor had not observed before, she’d not let it catch her off guard. The stiffening of her muscles and ever so slight shift of her posture only further placed poor Alexandria on edge. Of course, the Archon only felt further bemusement from such a posture, and they exhaled a chortle of a laugh - which did little to ease Emberfell’s steadily growing irritation at this creature’s presence. “What sort of witch are you, Et’chta?” A word unfamiliar to Alexandria, but one Maedalaane did somewhat recognize, if barely. They believed it to be some manner of curse term from a planet long since abandoned by its Developers. Then again, there were an infinite number of languages amongst the infinite worlds out there in the various multiverses, so the word could really mean anything. The inflection and low tone taken certainly implied it was some degree of curse, however. '“Witch? Me?!” The Archon placed a hand upon their chest in a mockery of offense. “I am merely myself, there’s no need to throw about terms such as witch, wizard, demon, human, or the like.” One of the Preceptor’s brows twitched as she uncrossed her arms to rest one hand upon her waist and leave the other to hang loosely at her other side. Just as she opened her mouth to say something which definitely wasn’t anything far too wordy and poise for the current company, Maedalaane interjected, “So then. Why in the world are the two of you out here in the middle of nowhere, and at such a late hour?” Emberfell cast her ire back to Alexandria, who shook her head rapidly from side to side and underhandedly pointed to the Preceptor for her to answer the question. A long sigh escaped the demoness as she looked back to this… thing of a creature. “I am Preceptor Emberfell,” She began, prior lilting dulcet tone now sapped dry by the new annoyance. “Via summoning ritual of--” A slight pause, thoughts coalescing. “--Alexandria. I was brought here to arrange a transaction entailing her desires and the compensation I deem fit to receive for granting said desires. I am confident that all beings such as ourselves comprehend such matters. Thusly, I am here on business. You’ve interrupted it.” The corners of Emberfell’s lips drew downward when she had finished speaking, predatory ire lurking in the shadows of now furrowed brows. She could only say ‘ourselves’ as a catch-all rather than any wish of being in even the same category as this oddity. Alexandria glanced to the display of irritation out of the corner of her eyes and quickly swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “Mhmhmhmhmmm,” Maedalaane half-hummed and half-chuckled with the mirth that the Preceptor had lost, usurping the joy that they should have had no right to in this moment. “Pray tell, what is the price to be paid? Eye of newt and toe of frog? Wool of bat and tongue of---ah, wait, that’s witches!” So amused by their own wit, the oddling loosed a cackle that echoed throughout the woods. “Not...not...well, whatever you are. I mean, this smacks of the old Crossroads Demons shtick but I always thought they wouldn’t be so good looking.” They followed the compliment with a sly wink of the eyes that did another once-over of the Preceptor. Emberfell’s tapered ears pinned against her head in response to Maedalaane’s excessive demeanor and out of the corner of her eye she could detect the slightest stiffening of Alexandria’s muscles. What indeed would be the actual price to pay for the arrangement? At the very least, Maedalaane reminded her of what could be a proper problem. It was easy to assume the worst and the worst made her blood run colder than the erratic demeanor of the third party. Looking back to the enigmatic Archon, Emberfell’s expression remained the same as she continued with the same bone dry tone. “The subject of product and the payment therein is confidential to myself and the involved parties. I am afraid it would be unkind and ill-mannered of me to share details to unaffiliated third parties.” Somehow, she knew that this answer would not at all satisfy the creature of a being. An exaggerated pout set upon Maedalaane’s lips, black corner curled downward and eyebrow pinched together in disappointment - unlike the Preceptor’s own furrow telling of growing agitation. “Are you a demon or an attorney? Goodness me. We haven’t even finished with our first party yet, nevermind third!” Their pout transformed into a grin which only further pressed the Preceptor’s patience. “...Seriously, though,” The Archon’s tone grew a mild degree more serious as they claimed one step forward and focused their frenetic gaze upon Alexandria. She fought back the compulsion to step back in return but already held a degree of trust for Emberfell. If only because the demoness was dead serious about her business. “Whatever variety of magick was worked here to summon your new friend also summoned me. I am very much part of this transaction.” Emberfell and Alexandria exchanged looks - the Preceptor’s highly displeased and Alexandria befuddled and perhaps a touch meek. The Archon was neither cackling nor jesting this time as they stood straight-backed and square-shouldered. It was either true or a convincing lie - and it would have been a very convincing lie, what with having hurled their self face first into a tree in order to set the theatric up. That spell had '''nothing' about summoning multiple demons...'' “Beans are to be spilled, yes, and they better not be pinto beans. I don’t like those.” A lowly growl rumbled deep in Emberfell’s cords as she tried - quite in vain - to calm herself before she displayed something she would surely regret. Just before she opened her mouth to speak, she caught Alexandria looking up to her with a concerned expression. It occured to Emberfell that she may not wish for this stranger to be made completely privy to her situation and what she wanted of the Crossroads Demon. Contemporary mortal matters were not lost on her - especially when it’d be best to account for them in business. Yet, she was not one to spin lies, though perhaps an exaggeration of the truth might be enough to finally ease the Archon’s curiosities and encourage them to face-lumberjack elsewhere. Finally the Preceptor answered Maedalaane’s proper, her eyelids lowered still ever so slightly and the slant of her pupils hardly more than a nail-thin sliver. “This one; Alexandria Everett, summoned me with the intention of making a deal to change her physical body in that which she desired, not just in terms of her appearance, but also on the molecular and biological level. Her very DNA will be rewritten so that she will have what she wishes. In return, she will offer a yet to be negotiated years of her life in service to myself and those upon my level. A fair trade, considering what I could very well be taking instead.” Now, that was certainly an interesting thing to summon a daemon for and the glint in Maedalaane’s eyes made it clear they thought this. Yet, Alexandria couldn’t help but wonder if they too would now be offering up a proposition of their own since they also - supposedly - had been summoned... VI “Interesting that you feel the need to justify. ‘Fair’, you say.” Snidely remarked the ivory and platinum colored Archon illuminated by the kindredly hued full moon of the night, their likeness now so saturated in silver shades it seemed to radiate off their frame. But it was more than a seemful coincidence to astute minds like this Crossroad Demon who’s sharp third eye was second-nature. Even Alexandria knew this for what it was. She knew more of supernatural matters than the other two would have thought. This time she was in over her head, but this time was not the first time she dabbled in the arts that her world’s science couldn’t yet explain. This time was the time she truly had to cede to that kind of language. ‘Her world’. She could only imagine - or maybe only try to imagine - the worlds these two came from. Auras, though. Auras she understood. That was an aura surrounding Maedalaane, who’s name was still yet not given to her and The Preceptor. And why did they have one whereas the other didn’t? Auras were not the easiest of body parts to manage. Not for those who forever insisted on saturating their corporeal vessels with as much Anima as possible. Maedalaane maintained this precarious balance, still able to mask the feel of the aura - the emotions and inclinations it inspired - but its visual likeness often slipped through like it did right now. It was a relief for The Archon that the demoness’ even-further narrowed eyes didn’t precipitate defensive measures, for a spike in aura was usually the tell of channeled magick. Indeed, no fighting...not yet. Only a girl’s heart-warming childlike wonder, a self-important demoness’ befuddled scrutinization, and their own amusement at the second. “Well!” Maedalaane continued on, having now claimed the dead-center of the crossroad, hands clasped to their back while they rocked between the balls and heels of their feet. “It too is fair that I offer my own proposition due to my own being summoned.” Tell the truth, or at least don’t lie. So a Law was, and fun it was to finagle with its more liberal mandate. “And the freedom of choice is very fair as well. Will you afford our new friend that freedom, Lady Emberfell?” A sigh as long as a tree’s sway in a storm slipped out from betwixt The Preceptor’s violet lips. Alexandria looked expectantly up to the demonic businesswoman, very much wanting to be afforded that freedom and could only hope that the she-devil’s work ethic was solid. That she was prepared to properly negotiate as all business people should. “...Speak your piece and do not mince words, Et’chta.” Every syllable was as pointed as an angry stockbroker after a bad day at the markets, especially the last word - that ugly curse again. “I’m going to at least mince my name so you stop call---well you’ll still probably call me mean words anyways but whatever.” A quickly swallowed chortle from Alexandria was heard by both, both pairs of elongated ears flicking. It was generally a better approach in all of life to be humorous and jovial. It dulled The Archon’s deathly sharp aesthetic and they knew it - never minding the fact that they were the least deserving person of anger in this galaxy. They were already well on their way to winning the girl over, which also meant well on their way to bailing off of this ugly Earth. The Preceptor, though, if her scowl was anything to go by...she didn’t appreciate this method. Although Maedalaane couldn't help but wonder if she simply had a bad case of resting bitch face. “Maedalaane. Pleased to meet you!” The now-named oddling bowed their head deeply. “No...titles, or…?” Alexandria softly inquired and dared to claim one step forward. She understood she was dealing with people so far out of her league that they were in a different game entirely, but Maedalaane was proving herself...himself…theirself…? To not be as dangerous as their visage suggested. Affable, even. “Oh, yes. A lot of titles. But none are applicable to this world, so I’d only be acting self-important if I prattled off my personal laundry list of epithets.” They rolled their shoulders that were too broad to be a born-woman’s. Alexandria peered at them for a second with twisted lips before she cleared her throat and spoke up louder. “...Could I still know them?” The Preceptor’s chin lifted at the question, she too looking to be curious. Maedalane quirked a brow before loosing an amused huff. “...Behold, then, you bare witness to The Destroyer of Death! The Ender of Endings!! The Archon of Life!!!” Alexandria wondered if ‘Jester Supreme’ was going to be in the list as she struggled to stifle laughter. “Maedalaane Naeurione; The Progenitor of The Constellate!!!!” “Cease your prattle! I have heard enough of your insufferable drivel!” The Preceptor demanded, only a few decibels away from screaming. The edge of her voice cut through the air both metaphorically and even a touch physically. An arcane underpinning below these syllables assaulted Maedalaane’s ears and it felt terribly reminiscent of them being yanked. “Owh, shit!” The Archon winced but was quick to rebound, this spur of the moment magick easily disposed of by way of an intricate gesticulation constituting a dispel. Alexandria too got quite the startle but hadn’t been subjected to an arcane outlash. New concern flashed in her eyes as they darted between the two. Snap. Off the crossroads surrounded by thicket a branch broke, its snap followed by unmistakeable footsteps. The trio froze, quickly realizing that they’d attracted attention with their commotion. “Dispatch, suspects found. Proceeding to identiffffff---y…” One of two police officers began to speak too soon into his handset before he found a gap in the bushes that he now peaked out of. “You will not associate with that hivemind!” A conviction filled tone yet unheard from The Preceptor commanded as she sprung into action. She lunged forth and seized Alexandria's arm, affording her no time to wonder what in the hells the demoness meant by 'hivemind'. She wouldn't get a chance either, the demoness now weaving a spell in her empty hand. Category:Stories In Progress